


An Awful Good Girl

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, New Year's nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 10:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19744162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: In Italy, it’s considered lucky to ring in the New Year wearing red underwear.





	An Awful Good Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from tumblr.

“Why, _hello_ there, pretty la-”

“Not for you.” South Italy’s hands have slapped down on America’s before they can come within three inches of her currently almost bare body, flapping him away with the same hands so she can go back to adjusting her silky red bra strap where it crosses over her shoulder.

Having just come out of the bathroom to this, America gapes, struck in the ego. “Then _who -”_

“Who do you _think, idiota?_ ” South Italy is gorgeous. South Italy has always been gorgeous, and that includes when she is making a face at the fully-dressed America that says she does not think a great deal of his intelligence. South Italy is _especially_ gorgeous standing in front of their hotel mirror wearing nothing but a matching underwear set made of silk and deep red lace, all skin and curves and dangerous grace. (Even if she _does_ still have her dark hair tied up in a pom-pom from when she was in the bathroom. With a tomato-patterned scrunchie.) _“Me._ ” 

“…Oh.” America concedes the obvious explanation he had entirely missed, carefully circumnavigating the hotel room so he can avoid tripping over pointy shoes and take a seat on the one chair left in the room that doesn’t have any of South Italy’s clothing on it. “You look good,” he says, a little lamely.

“I know _that._ ” The bra appears to be sitting fine on South Italy’s shoulders, but she keeps frowning down at the cups. Which makes America look at the cups.

When South Italy starts reaching down to _cup her breasts_ to fiddle with wires, America decides to try studying the ceiling instead, thinking cooling, calming thoughts. About whether he has enough gingerbread to last him until the end of January after Kumajirou got into his stash. Whether he’s going to shovel the driveway again before the end of the week. Where on earth South Italy is going to keep a knife on her when they go out with underwear _that_ tiny on.

Oh God.

“Is that a new bra?” America blurts out, because the cooling, calming thoughts aren’t going well and the silence in the room is just making him hear every soft sound of delicate lace shifting against South Italy’s skin. “It’s lacier than your other stuff. Sexy! On you. But. Different?”

When he risks a glance at South Italy again, the older Nation is already looking strangely at him. “…I didn’t think _you_ could tell the difference between women’s lingerie.”

America frowns, stung. “I pay attention to _yours._ ” He pays attention to _most_ of the things his partners wear, if only so he can try and come out with a suave compliment about them. Besides, it’s a good way to pick up what colours people like, so he can buy them nice presents later.

“That is because _mine_ is _fashionable._ ” Apparently happy with the fit of her bra - praise God and baby Jesus -, South Italy pads closer. She must be in a good mood; she hasn’t directly insulted the suit he’s wearing yet.

America stops silently thanking God when she sits on his lap, warm and still mostly bare and smelling _amazing_ from whatever perfume she has dabbed at her throat. If the _not for you_ rule is still in place, he’s probably going to die shortly. “I know fashionable!” New York’s shows make him a fashion capital of the _world._

“You know _me,_ ” South Italy asserts, and America bites down on his tongue before he can come out with something stupid - _is that in the biblical sense?_ She touches her chest, and - oh. Oh, America is looking down. It’s beautiful. “Veneziana bought me this.”

Something in America’s brain splutters and breaks. “Your _sister_ bought you _sexy underwear?!”_

“Don’t make it sound so perverted, _cazzo!”_ South Italy sniffs, reaching up to pull out her scrunchie and let her hair down at last. “It is _traditional,_ good luck for the New Year.”

Still a little dumbfounded, America takes the scrunchie he is handed to hold, watching the woman in his lap comb roughly through her hair with her fingers. “You have a tradition for sexy underwear?”

 _“Red_ underwear,” he is corrected. “It must be new, and a gift from someone else.” South Italy’s hands pause in her hair, something going a little dark in her voice. “I bought her some too, since no-one _else_ in her life can actually be trusted to get her something _appropriate_.”

…America is mildly tempted to ask if North Italy’s lingerie is somehow fitted with a chastity belt, but decides his life isn’t worth it. “Well,” he manages instead. “You look good?”

“You said that,” says South Italy, but doesn’t look at all displeased at the repetition.

“You look _very_ good,” America says, and dares to lay his hand on the warmth of South Italy’s lower back. Trying not to think about his fingers just brushing the lace of her panties. “I mean, uh.” There is absolutely no lie in the admiration in America’s eyes or voice when he lets his gaze slowly look the gorgeous Nation on his lap up, down and roundabout again. “ _Wow._ ”

South Italy’s expression slides from ‘not displeased’ to ‘quietly preening’, shifting her hair back over her shoulder so America can admire the elegant arch of her neck. “Damn right I look good. You should be honoured to have me in your presence.”

When she rises from America’s lap again, South Italy has America help zip up her dress. In the wardrobe crash-site that has become of their hotel room, she has found _one_ dress to wear: a short blue, slippery thing that seems primarily designed for sliding _off_ the slim curves it drapes so lovingly upon.

“I have honey cakes for you,” South Italy says unexpectedly, America’s eyes meeting hers over her shoulder in the reflection from their mirror. “You better damn eat them; I made them myself.”

“Thanks?” America isn’t one to turn down free food, even if he has no idea why he’s being given it. These days, South Italy only cooks for him when she reaches the breaking point of how much ‘American _crap’_ she’s willing to put up with, turning up on America’s doorstep laden down with bags of fresh produce and the scary single-minded temper of a general surveying underfed and lacklustre troops.

“It’s another tradition.” South Italy bends to pick up her silver-heeled shoes, one balancing hand spread against America’s chest as she dons them and goes up more a few inches in height against him, half her body at a time. Her wry look ends up somewhere around his nose, both her hands coming up to grip the lapels of his suit as America lets his hands rest on her hips. “You need all the good luck you can get.”

 _“Thanks,_ ” America says again, a lot less gratefully for the snide projection of his New Year. “Not that I don’t ‘preciate the food, but I would’a happily just had a New Year’s kiss instead. You kiss better than you cook -” the Italian nation in his arms _scowls_ at him, a sudden threatening thundercloud, so America hurries on - “and you _cook_ really damn good.”

“…So some of your tastebuds _are_ still functioning.” South Italy sniffs at him, but pushes her body up against his chest so she can lean up slightly and press a brief kiss to his mouth. America isn’t going to complain about either. “You’re ending the year with a lot of surprises. You’re not going to do something stupid when we’re out at dinner, are you?”

America grins, wide and easy. “And embarrass my lovely lady and her sexy underwear?” 

(South Italy scowls at him. But later, after dinner, after drinks and dancing and the New Year being rung in, she lets him take the dress and sexy underwear _off._ )


End file.
